


Exposure

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Based on Solnishko, Basically if you read Solnishko you know what's up, Bondage, Cock Cage, Collar, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fingering, Gags, Gunplay, M/M, Mafioso Castiel, Non-Con Piercings and Tattoos, Non-Consensual Photography and Video, POV Outsider, Panic Attacks, Poor Sam, Rape/Non-con Elements, Riding, Sex Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: Castiel hires a photographer to take pictures of Sam. As usual, he gets a little... Carried away.





	Exposure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Solnishko](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398594) by [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/pseuds/ZoyciteM). 
  * Inspired by [Solnishko](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398594) by [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/pseuds/ZoyciteM). 



> I have been dying to play in Zoy's sandbox since I read Solnishko... Go read it if you haven't, by the way. Her Cas is just... Swoon. Anyway, I did a lil spinoff fic that I hope does justice to her incredible world and characters. PLEASE read the tags!

 

 

The first thing Henry notices as he's hustled into a large, airy room is that this place is fuckin' weird. Like... 'your net worth still falls below how much my toilet is worth' insane, and that's before he even gets a proper look at the subject of his photography. The whole thing is very hush-hush- which is what Henry gets for being a sort of deep-web, black-market photographer -although while he's done photography for far more stomach-turning scenes, this one... is just weird.

 

Like he's seen gore, child exploitation and labor, snuff porn, you name it. But he's never walked into a room and felt the temperature carefully lower, degree by degree, the longer he stares at the figure in the center of the room. There's some crazy direct-correlation shit going on here; the longer the staring, the lower the temperature drops, until finally he tries to break the tension with a cheesy grin and a sweep of his arms. 

 

"Are- Is this Castiel?" he asks after a moment, clearing his throat as he looks back at the grumpy-looking Russian man who escorted him in. The man doesn't bother gracing him with an answer- why would he? Wait, does he know English? -and just grunts instead, gaze turning slightly away from Henry to glance at the corner over his shoulder. 

 

"That would be me, actually," the low, ice-clipped voice from the corner moves close faster than Henry expects, and he nearly trips when he whirls around. The man he clearly hadn't seen when he walked in is standing before him, arctic blue eyes boring into him like he's going to skewer him like a kebab and roast him on an open fire in that fancy-ass backyard grill of his. "And I will thank you not to ogle  _Solnishko_ unless it is through the lens of your camera and for the purpose that I have called you here today." 

 

Everyone is clearly Russian. This man- Castiel, the man behind him, the men who led him up here. But Henry's willing to bet a lot of money that  _Solnishko_ - sunshine in Russian, his brain helpfully supplies -isn't, which means he must be here against his own volition. Poor kid. But Castiel's frigid gaze reminds him that the job he's chosen to live his life doing can be grim, and it's none of his fucking business anyway. He glances back at  _Solnishko_ once more, before shrugging his shoulders.

 

"It's part of the job, buddy." he drawls, and Castiel's lower lip curls in displeasure at the casual terminology. Noted. "I mean, uh. I'm really not interested. I was just kind of taken aback, is all."

 

Because most people don't have their partners or sex slaves or whatever looking like extras from a diamond commercial, locked into tight bondage with more body modifications than Henry could count on one hand. 

 

Solnishko- a mouthful, really, so Henry's brain starts replacing it with  _Sol_ -is truly an eye-catching centerpiece. There's no doubt that he truly is beautiful, golden planes of completely naked skin stretched taut beneath tight, crisscrossed ropes. The pose he's in looks... Painful, but elegant, which he's sure Castiel was going for anyway. Sol's arms are stretched taut behind him, cuffed, with the chain linking the cuffs draped over a hook in the ceiling. He's bent forward, body facing downwards and legs spread with what looks like a solid fuckin' gold spreader bar, but his head is upright, parallel to the floor. He's wearing a collar, but to Henry's knowledge, the collar isn't quite keeping Sol's head up- sheer willpower is. Probably means that whatever's in store for Sol now can't be as horrible as what might be in store for him if his head drops. 

 

Yeah, Henry  _said_ he wasn't interested, but he's kind of reconsidering that as he kneels down so he’s eye level with what looks like an intricate corset piercing running across the slope of the perfectly straight back. Superfine golden chains weave in and out of the corset, glittering faintly under the soft, warm glow of the chandelier above them, but Henry knows better than to touch. Castiel's already riding his ass with the frigid look in his eyes as he watches Henry admire his prized artwork, Henry can't imagine what might happen if he actually lays a finger on Sol. 

 

Not to his surprise, the boy doesn't even look at him. Sol's eyes are lowered, and only when he's this close can Henry see the tiny drops of perspiration lining the dark chestnut tresses from the effort of keeping his head up and his eyes down. Even if Sol  _wants_ to say something about his current predicament, he'd likely find it hard with the impressive spider gag in his mouth. Though Henry has always found spider gags to be unwieldy and somewhat unattractive, this one definitely isn't difficult to look at; a simple golden ring rests between pearl-white teeth, and the golden 'legs' of the spider spread over Sol's cheeks and accentuate his high cheekbones before tapering off into thick black leather bands just under his ears. 

 

"Impressive, isn't it?" Castiel sounds different from a moment before; something in his voice is lower, throatier, and he's looking at Sol like the other is the only one in the room. Henry's photographed slaves before; if he hadn't noticed something was different from the get-go, this gives him pause from his admiration of Sol's carefully bound body. Castiel presses two fingers down against Sol's vulnerable tongue, sliding them back into his throat until Henry breaks the silence with the shutter-snap of the camera clicking a picture, and then withdraws his hand and blinks at Henry, like, for a moment, he'd forgotten the photographer was even there.

 

"What did you do?" Castiel frowns after a moment, narrowing in on Henry with an open threat in his eyes. "I wanted pictures of  _Solnishko_ , not me. Delete that immediately."

 

"Look at it before you say that," Henry says quietly, lifting the camera over his head to show Castiel the snap of the intimate moment- the look in Castiel's eyes, on the verge of- dare he say it -gentle, Sol's pink-tinged cheeks in sharp contrast to the golden legs of the spider, the way Sol's body is tight in anticipation of Castiel's next move.

 

Castiel looks at it for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he glances between the camera and Henry, before he tilts his head in the slightest acknowledgment. Henry breathes a quiet sigh of relief, then steps back with his camera at the ready. 

 

“Just .. be natural,” he calls, taking a seat as he adjusts his camera just slightly to blur out the edges of the tiny, circular world, to sharpen the focus on the two figures in the center. Castiel’s draped over a loveseat beside Sol’s tense body, looking for all the world like a casual Romeo rather than a Russian mafioso, but there’s a glimmer of sheer power that Henry does his best to capture. Castiel moves gracefully but quickly, like a viper, fingers moving back the silky curls that spill over Sol’s cheeks or tilting his chin upwards.

 

At one point, Castiel brings his matte black gun out, the color almost shockingly prominent against Sol’s skin. The mafioso rests the muzzle just between the parted lips, dips the gun back slightly so it eases down into Sol’s throat. The fingers of his other hand, he rests along the column of skin, as if trying to feel the gun’s descend down. Castiel cocks the gun, holds, smiling down at Sol as he trails his thumb back and forth over the trigger. 

 

Henry gets more shots of the deeply intimate moment than he probably would’ve needed to. 

 

Castiel’s muttering quiet things in Russian to Sol that Henry doesn’t quite understand, but the tone of his voice makes it sound like light praise. The mafioso curls his fingers under Sol’s chin, withdraws the slick gun and rests it in Sol’s open, bound hands.

 

“Hold that, sweet boy,” he says, almost so soft that Henry barely hears it, but Sol’s fingers close almost imperceptibly around the weapon. He’s barely moving now, for all the world looking like a still painting, like a slice of tranquility, and if it weren’t for the steady exhales as he maintains his posture, Henry might’ve thought the boy was a work of art himself, a fetishized statue in the middle of Castiel’s living room. 

 

As he’s adjusting his lens again, he nearly misses Castiel leaving the room for a moment- to compose himself, maybe? -before returning with what looks to be one of those whips with several fronds and a loop for him to weave his hand through. Henry can’t, for the life of him, remember its name, until he recalls having seen it in some sort of fetish club before.

 

“Cat o’ nine tails,” Castiel supplies quietly, in range for Henry but still out of range for Sol, who seems to be waiting in nervous anticipation for something he can’t see. Henry lifts the camera again as Castiel trails the whip over Sol’s inner thigh, the ends of the strips snagging along the eve of Sol’s body. Sol trembles, his throat working from the effort of trying not to duck his head, and squeezes his eyes shut when Castiel makes sure to drag the ends of the whip over the seam of his ass, his exposed hole. Henry’s so transfixed he nearly forgets to take pictures, but fortunately, Castiel is kind enough to repeat the process. Over and over, excruciatingly patient, he repeats the ministrations over Sol’s balls, his hole, his cheeks, until the boy’s legs are quivering. Sol makes his first noise of the evening, a mewling little whimper, and Castiel just chuckles in response.

 

“I thought you might enjoy that, sweet boy,” he says, with that low, barely there chuckle, before setting the whip aside and retrieving the gun once more. 

 

Sol seems to understand that this part of the process is actually deadly, because he goes almost eerily still when relieved of the gun. Castiel smiles at the instant response, the corners of his mouth melting into something a little more sinister as he points the gun away from Sol and at the wall instead. 

 

There must be a silencer, because all Henry hears is a pop, but Sol’s limbs shake like it’s the end of the world. His toes curl and uncurl, fingers twitching in his bonds as Castiel runs the smoking weapon over Sol’s belly, dipping it into his navel before running the muzzle over the precome-leaking head of his cock. 

 

“Is it still warm, Solnishko?” Castiel asks quietly. “Squeeze your right hand twice for yes, one for no.” 

 

One of the clenched hands squeezes twice, then falls back into a motionless twitch, and Castiel smiles indulgently as he moves his hand back around Sol’s body and trails the gun down the corset piercing. He takes his time, dipping the muzzle into each and every divot of Sol’s spine ... including the slight hollow at the small of his back. Slight twist and he’s moving the gun down, lower, lower still until it rests against Sol’s hole.

 

Up until now, Castiel had remained relatively calm. As he presses the gun into Sol’s body and cocks it, Henry notices that there’s the slight shift of something a bit more carnal, lust-driven, in those sharp blue eyes. Each inch deeper causes his expression to change, little by little until it’s almost unrecognizable. 

 

Castiel takes a moment, holding his hand very, very still, before cocking the gun. Sol’s body tenses up, and Henry can almost feel the boy’s heart jackrabbiting; his dilated pupils dart to the side, trying to gauge what’s happening.

 

“You’re likely curious about the status of the weapon inside of you right now,” Castiel says out of the blue, in a low, almost amused voice. One of his hands rests flat against one of Sol’s cheeks, the other twisting the gun into his body a little bit more. “I know a bit about guns, so let me educate you. A moment ago, the gun was in Condition Two... safety on, hammer decocked. Takes a couple steps to actually shoot. Now that I’ve cocked the hammer, the only thing between you and a possible bullet is the safety.” Castiel leans in slightly, and, after a long, no doubt stressful pause, deliberately clicks the safety off. “This? This is Condition Zero,” he grins, and it’s decidedly not a kind expression. “The only thing between you and a bullet is my mercy,  _Solnishko_.” 

 

Sol doesn’t move. Henry’s fluttering about, taking pictures, because that gun could fire at any moment and  _he_ sure as hell doesn’t want to be on the receiving end. But he would be hard-pressed to say that Castiel is even paying attention to him; it appears that his world has narrowed down to just him and his ... pleasure slave, or whatever.

 

Castiel lazily thrusts the gun forward, drawing back slightly and pushing again, taking up an almost unpredictable rhythm. Sometimes he forces the gun in deep, dragging the muzzle hard against Sol’s insides and prompting the boy to whine, and other times he lazily toys with the rim, tempting the idea of pushing the gun in but not quite doing it. Eventually, he seems to tire of the practice, and waves a hand at Henry as he sets the gun aside on a table.

 

“I’m going to change up Sol’s position,” he says, when Henry lowers the camera. “Feel free to freshen up, use the facilities- this might take a few moments of adjusting. There are some refreshments at the table in the corner.”

 

Henry’s impressed by the hospitality (which probably means Castiel (hopefully) approves of the photos he’s seen) and closes the camera as he watches Sol tremble in anticipation and likely some exhaustion. “Is there any way I can help?”

 

Castiel smiles briefly, shaking his head. “I’m quite possessive of him,” he says unobtrusively, resting a hand on Sol’s back. “I like to be the one to make any changes and tie him up, and besides ... my pet can be quite skittish around others. I would hate to have to punish him.”

 

Henry can’t help but think Cas would deeply enjoy the punishment, not hate it, but he doesn’t say anything. “Your call, boss.” He raises a hand as he heads towards the refreshments, and Castiel nods a bit before calling after him.

 

“When you come back, bring me one of those bottles of water.”

 

Henry takes a few moments at the refreshment table, stuffing his face with a traditional Russian pastry-  _pastila_. He’s quite fond of the light, fruity taste, and even though the scary Russian guy is  _totally_ judging him, he can’t really be assed to slow down. He wraps a few in a napkin and stuffs it into his coat before grabbing a water bottle back to the little setup. 

 

By this point, Castiel is finished setting up. Sol’s new position has him kneeling on the loveseat Castiel had been in before, his arms stretched above his head and chained to the hook a few feet above his head. Henry glances around furtively, noticing many more similarly positioned hooks in the ceiling, and silently wonders if all of these hooks are in the ceiling just to string Sol up in different positions. 

 

Castiel turns to a man who’s just walked in from a different entrance into the circular room, speaks to him in a warm burst of Russian, and then leads him over to Sol. Henry watches intently as Castiel and the man converse in low tones for a moment, before the man reaches into his bag and brings out what looks like some sort of glittering shroud. As he drapes it over Sol, Henry notices it’s incredibly fine, almost like a web, with tiny diamonds dispersed randomly at intersections like trapped, glittering insects. The man also adds some sort of shimmering dust to Sol’s fine, long lashes so they sparkle in the soft light, and Castiel’s face breaks into a warm, broad smile.

 

Again, there’s a short exchange, entirely in Russian, before Castiel embraces the man and sends him on his way. He extends his hand toward Henry, and for a moment, Henry stupidly wonders if Castiel wants to shake his hand before he realizes the mafioso is silently asking for the water. He hands it over, watching curiously as Castiel pours the water into the curve of his palm, letting it pool up before holding it in front of Sol’s lips.

 

“Drink,  _Solnishko_ ,” he murmurs, seated almost deceptively casually beside Sol. Sol’s eyes flicker toward Castiel, then in Henry’s direction, and the warm flush that spreads over his cheeks contrasts sharply with his holographic eyelashes. “ _Solnishko_.” Castiel’s voice teeters slightly into the beginnings of disapproval, and Sol ducks his head forward, tongue curved slightly into a cup as he laps at the pool of water in Castiel’s palm. Henry quietly pulls his camera out, moving back and snapping pictures at a distance so he doesn’t disrupt the moment too much. 

 

“...Good boy,” Castiel praises, spreading his fingers once most of the water is gone. “Make sure to get the water between and on my fingers,” he says lowly, watching as Sol licks away any stray drops from his fingertips and the webs of skin between his fingers. “We have to keep you hydrated, after all.”

 

Sol makes a whine of a sound, around the gag, his body arching sharply as he stretches himself out. It’s like watching a golden brown taffy pull, his mile long legs unfolding for a moment and diamonds glittering brilliantly, before he rests back down onto the couch. 

 

“Ready for act two?” Castiel’s smirk sharpens at the edges as he takes his place behind Sol on the open loveseat. He slides his hands down Sol’s sharp hipbones, chest pressed to the boy’s back as Sol glances back at Castiel from underneath his long eyelashes.

 

Castiel eases one leg between Sol’s, holding the other partially in his lap, before moving his hands into the diamond shroud and over the boy’s ribs. He takes his time, incredibly gentle as he strokes, feather-light, over the pliant body underneath him. 

 

But the moment doesn’t last forever, and soon, Castiel removes his hands and leans back, reaching down to unbutton his pants. At the sound of the zipper, Sol twitches, glancing at the camera and then back toward Castiel.

 

_Oh, shit_ , Henry thinks, _this is happening_. Castiel is going to fuck his sex slave on camera.

 

He can see the exact moment Sol starts to panic, his chest rising and falling with rapid, sharp breaths and his fingers curling tight into his palms as he yanks at the chains. Castiel mutters something- Henry can’t tell if it’s Russian or English, from this distance -before yanking Sol back against his body. He pins him close, arms wrapped tightly  around the panicking boy, and Sol’s wet eyelashes finally settle at half-mast as he’s more or less squeezed into submission. Castiel murmurs something in his ear in a soothing rumble, before finally releasing Sol and settling back against the loveseat again.

 

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice a little coarse as he squeezes Sol’s hip. “Carry on.”

 

Henry swallows, casting a skeptical glance at the once again quiet Sol, before lifting his camera again. 

 

“ _Solnishko_ ,” Castiel says evenly, hand still strumming over Sol’s hip lightly, “I’ve noticed that I’ve been doing quite a bit of work lately, pleasuring you earlier in the photoshoot and now as well.” He fists his cock until it’s hard, precome pearling over the tip, and aligns himself loosely underneath the vee of Sol’s spread legs. “Which is why you’re going to be carrying the rest of the workload.” He reclines, leaning back in a casual, sprawling position, spreading his own legs as one hand loosely curls around the base of his cock. “Go on, then.”

 

Sol hesitates for a moment, almost as if he’s weighing his options, but a sharp swat against his backside has him lifting his thighs and setting the diamonds ablaze. He glances back, lowering himself down onto Castiel’s cock with just the softest sound, and as he snaps a photo, Henry realizes Sol’s wearing a silver cock cage that’s nearly hidden behind the diamond shroud. Go figure.

 

Castiel’s teeth press into his lower lip, head arched back slightly as Sol rocks himself against his crotch. Cloth pools around Sol’s thighs as Castiel works his pants down lower, and the diamonds catch the light and bounce tiny circles of light over the walls like a disco ball. 

 

“Don’t hesitate,” Castiel instructs, voice grinding out in a bit of a growl, and he appears to be showing quite a lot of restraint as he lets Sol do all the heavy lifting. The boy rides him expertly, rise and fall in a steady, smooth motion as he grasps the rhythm, and Castiel digs half-moon marks into Sol’s hips with his nails. “Harder,” he hisses between his teeth, and Sol makes a sound that’s sort of the love child of a moan and a whimper and impales himself deeper onto Castiel, his thighs trembling slightly with the effort. 

 

“That’s it,” Castiel encourages with the same ground-glass quality to his voice, his hips swiveling slightly as he tries to keep himself flat on the loveseat. It only takes Sol a few more erratic, deep thrusts and one full-body squeeze to get Cas to lose his composure and come, his lips parted slightly around a low groan and head tilted back over the loveseat. That’s one of Henry’s best pictures, both of them exhausted and sweat glimmering on their skin in a faint, glowing sheen. 

 

Come trickles down Sol’s inner thighs when Castiel pulls free, and Henry feels more than sees the boy’s palpable shame at being fucked like a porn star on camera. Castiel gently undoes the spider gag, and Sol exhales, stretching his jaw wide. His owner chuckles.

 

“I think you owe our photographer your gratitude, hm?” Castiel prompts, and Sol’s body jolts slightly as fingers trail over his fucked-out hole. Henry averts his eyes for a second, but then he can’t look away from whatever Castiel is doing. Which, right now, is sliding his fingers into Sol, using his own come as lubricant. “Go on,  _Solnishko_. Thank him for taking all those pretty pictures of you.”

 

Sol’s clearly got other things on his mind- probably the fingers inside him, that would be pretty, uh, distracting, but Henry’s impressed when the boy manages to pry his eyes open slightly and pant out a, “Th-thank you f-for- for, uhm, all those pictures y-you took,” complete with several gasps and moans interspersed throughout when Castiel’s fingers no doubt stroke over his nerves. 

 

“Uh, no problem.” Henry’s fairly certain his face is a little red- or a lot red -but like ... he can’t look away. Castiel commands the boy’s body like he’s an expert violinist and Sol’s his prized violin, strings fine-tuned to respond best to his touch. 

 

“Good boy,” Castiel praises, then leans in, still working his fingers into Sol’s body unhurriedly. “anything else you’d like to say to the photographer?”

 

Sol hesitates for a moment, arching responsively against the fingers and flinching when his cock tests the boundaries of the cage, and then nods. “Th-thank you for w-watching me,” he says, blushing, not quite looking at Henry. 

 

“It’s not nice to break eye contact when thanking someone,  _Solnishko_.” Castiel chides coolly, and Sol’s eyes snap back to Henry’s again.

 

“A-Ah- Sorry,” he swallows, blushing even more now as he glances up hesitantly. “Thank you f-for watching m-me,” he swallows, licking his lips. “And f-for b-bringing me w-water.”

 

“Uh, it’s fine,” Henry says, because he’s not sure what else to say. Cool? Thanks? Awesome? Castiel seems satisfied enough, because he pulls his fingers free from Sol’s body and lets him finally slump down onto the loveseat.

 

 Castiel doesn’t shake Henry’s hand- based on where his fingers have been, Henry’s not complaining -but he does smile, almost warmly. It’s a chilling precursor to whatever he says next. “You can pick up your envelope on the way out. It should be sitting on the table by the door. Oh, and,” he pauses, like whatever is coming is a polite afterthought, “if you show those pictures to another living soul, I will find out, and you will deeply regret it... assuming you’re still alive to do so.”

 

Noted. Henry almost pees himself out of fear, mumbles some sort of affirmation, and stumbles out past the scowling Russian guy. Jesus. He can’t even fathom how Sol is still alive ... or maybe he’s just the newest in a long line of kidnapping victims?

 

Henry could help. He could figure out who the kid is, based on these pictures ... he could find his family ... he could do something about it. Or he could just retire to his couch with the strongest scotch he owns, transfer the pictures to his computer, and send Sol right the fuck out of his life so he doesn’t, y’know, die.

 

_Sorry, kid,_ he thinks to himself as he stuffs the fat envelope into his pocket and hurries off down the street with a minimal burst of guilt.  _It’s not my time to play hero._

 


End file.
